


Instead of Celebrations or Grand Reunions

by Illegible_Scribble



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Concerns and Reassurances, Cuddles, Fluff, Gentle Awakening from Mordor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 12:59:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14112861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble
Summary: Frodo and Sam do not all together stand idly by and watch as the Black Lands crumble around them, and they later stir to a peaceful awakening in Minas Tirith. One that does not involve being placed before a cheering crowd and a feast, nor a bouncy and overwhelming reunion.





	Instead of Celebrations or Grand Reunions

**Author's Note:**

> I always found both the Field of Cormallen in the original book, and the reunion of the Fellowship in Peter Jackson's film, to be a very jarring means of waking for both Sam and Frodo - the latter especially - after all they had just suffered. Thus, I wrote my own version: what I see as a much more gentle and appropriate way for them to awaken, which follows an alteration to the destruction of Mordor, to satisfy my love of Frodo/Sam.

_'Well, this is the end, Sam Gamgee,' said a voice by his side. And there was Frodo, pale and worn, and yet himself again; and in his eyes there was peace now, neither strain of will, nor madness, nor any fear. His burden was taken away. There was the dear master of the sweet days in the Shire._  
  
_'Master!' cried Sam, and fell upon his knees. In all that ruin of the world for the moment he felt only joy, great joy. The burden was gone. His master had been saved; he was himself again, he was free. And then Sam caught sight of the maimed and bleeding hand._  
  
_'Your poor hand!' he said. 'And I have nothing to bind it with, or comfort it. I would have spared him a whole hand of mine rather. But he's gone now beyond recall, gone for ever.'_  
  
_'Yes,' said Frodo. 'But do you remember Gandalf's words:_ Even Gollum may have something yet to do? _But for him, Sam, I could not have destroyed the Ring. The Quest would have been in vain, even at the bitter end. So let us forgive him! For the Quest is achieved, and now all is over. I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, Sam.' ___

____

__

__

_~ The Return of the King, J. R. R. Tolkien_

~

They had moved, since, to be free of what they could of the ruin of the Mountain of Fire, watching the hateful rock and molten slag of the Black Lands erode and crumble around them. Sam had spoken his wish to hear the story of _Nine-fingered Frodo and the Ring of Doom_ , and his wonder at how it might end.  
  
Frodo felt he knew well how it would end. His part, at the least, for after the end of the Ring - though he felt lighter, freer, and keener of mind - the world was falling apart around them, he would always have but nine fingers, now, and a new burden ebbed once more in his mind.  
  
Unlike the Ring, with its sweet, wordless whispers in his mind, seducing him at every step nearer to its doom, this new burden – or, more like an old one, only just stepping from the Ring's shadow – was one Frodo's will would not bend so easily to. For it was not solely a matter of wanting to take, it was also a matter of wanting to give, and Frodo did not know if he was right or worthy to give it.  
  
What he wished to impart, was the tattered remains of his heart, to the dearest friend that now stood at his side. His dear Samwise, that had walked with him to the end of the world, went without for Frodo's sake, carried him when Frodo couldn't walk, and here at the last, stood at his side after his failure to destroy the Ring. Stood, holding his maimed and bleeding hand. An eternal reminder (though it would now be a very short eternity, for the two) of his failure.  
  
He looked from the ruin of the world to Sam, who beneath all the grime and dirt still shone amid the shadows like a star, and wondered the worth to another, of a heart that the Ring had ravaged and left tainted. Surely to give such a valueless thing would only incur debt on the giver's part.  
  
But the ache in Frodo's chest, was born not from selfishness or want of possession, as the Ring had incurred in him, but a desperate want to convey thoughts he could not muster the words to say. It had always been Frodo that Sam thought the hero of the tale, and believed Frodo had been making fun of him when he'd tried to insist Sam ought to be called Samwise the Stouthearted. Sam, who thought of himself merely as Frodo's minder, as well as a halfwit as his name meant, and that when given a choice, he'd make the poor one.  
  
If his throat were not scoured by the smoke and ash in the air, and many days of little to no water (which was oily and foul at that), Frodo might have taken to crying that Sam was none of those things, and in fact in all ways opposite. For he was strong, brave, so very loyal and truer than any other Frodo had ever known. That, and to Frodo's mind, Sam was the most beautiful thing in all the world at that moment.  
  
He was frightened, and knew not what he was doing. He didn't feel worthy or just in this; that someone else more beautiful and pure should be the one. He had no right; he was broken. And yet, there would be no other to say, now, if Frodo did not. But he had no words, and there was no time, as the mountain behind them cracked and convulsed, sending molten rock into the air.  
  
Instead, Frodo said, so very softly, “Samwise,” causing the gardener to turn. There was a moment they gazed at each other, before Frodo placed his unmarred hand to Sam's cheek, and pulled him forward. There was no space between them a moment later, the impact of the kiss gentle, but startling to them both, before the shock fell away. In a desperate rush they attempted to convey everything with tilts of the head and short, desperate partings and reunions, two as one clinging to each other, sharing each breath as if of necessity.  
  
Frodo never knew how long it took for them to fall to their knees, still holding to each other so tightly. In stages they fell further until they sat, legs tangled as they faced one another, and their foreheads came to rest together. “Sam,” choked Frodo, gently running the thumb of his unmaimed hand along Sam's cheek, “I am so very sorry.”  
  
Flecks of gold and green - not seen since the springs and summers of lives past - danced in Sam's tearing eyes, as he smiled, taking Frodo's hand and placing a kiss upon its palm.  
  
Still holding to each other when the destruction around them became too much, they collapsed fully, unknowing of the gale blowing from the West and pushing the smoke and darkness above them, away. Where once had only flown the fell beasts the Ringwraiths made steeds, now, of the Great Eagles of the Misty Mountains flew Gwaihir and two of his brethren, while he bore the White Wizard upon his back, flying at great speed to the ruin of Mount Doom, and the rescue of the chief heroes of this tale.  
  
The halflings were not aware of their surprising fate, as their consciousness had fled them, leaving them deaf to all things.

~  


The darkness and the silence made him wonder if he was dying, or leastways if this was what dying felt like. He had felt the ground falling away beneath him, and in its place he had found only black and quiet. He thought to welcome what could be the onset of death, in the wake of his failure and humiliation he inflicted upon himself. To be released from remaining worldly torment, he thought, would be such a relief.  
  
His only hesitation, was that he thought death – if this is what it was – was very lonely. And he had never been alone before, not even after his parents had died, nor when Bilbo had left on his 33rd birthday, nor when he had tried to leave for Mordor on his own. His extended family had been there with him at the first; then later at Bilbo's departure, the Gamgees had remained close at hand, alongside Merry, Pippin, Fatty and Falco; and here at the last, from Amon Hen to the end of all things, it had been Sam at his side.  
  
Frodo's thoughts fidgeted when he considered his gardener, the recent months and past few moments spent with him, leading back to the long years of his tweenhood and Sam's boyhood. Once, Sam had simply been the lad of Bag End's gardener, and Bilbo's literary student. But it hadn't taken long for Frodo, upon his arrival to the Hill, to become endeared to the boy, and find himself unable to deny requests to tell stories or to go out on long, wandering walks with him. Much like his flaxen hair and the sun he so loved to play under, Sam was a bright lad, no matter his name meaning halfwit. Eager to learn and with a bigger mind for books and stories than most of the Shire's residents combined, Sam had quickly grown into a delight to entertain with fairy tales Frodo read to him or invented himself to tell to his young entourage.  
  
That had been the status quo for quite some years – what, ten or twelve? - until... Frodo wasn't entirely certain when or how it had happened. Of course, he chided himself, it had happened over time and in uncountable, subtle ways, but there had been one summer day some months at least before his 33rd birthday, that it occurred to Frodo that Sam was no longer a child. And he hadn't been for quite some time. He was taller and stronger than the Heir to the Hill could ever aspire to be, mannered and courteous as any grown gentlehobbit might hope to himself be, and though the Gaffer did not put all together much stock in the written word over a day's work, Sam had also become quite read and learned. He had grown from Frodo's freckle-faced tag-a-long in youth, to a grown and responsible gardener in his own right, eventually taking over all of his father's responsibilities for Bag End. Grown, and grown quite fine, to any hobbit's standards, Frodo had noticed on that fine summer day, as Sam had been working in the garden, while Frodo looked on from his study.  
  
It had been a sparse linkage of thoughts, that brought Frodo to a conclusion that frightened him into locking it away to inspect some other time – it had begun with a simple note of how strong Sam had become - as he did some task such as digging a new flowerbed - and how broad his shoulders. There was a strength and gentleness in his hands, as well, Frodo had recalled, from the times they'd passed something to one another, and had brushed his own hands against Sam's, or had helped the gardener care for some orphaned baby bird or rabbit kit. And that had lead him to think on Sam's big heart (for it needed to be big, if it held the whole Shire, as Sam's did); his kindness, respect, and love of nature in all forms, his generosity to his fellow hobbits (unless their surname was 'Sackville-Baggins' or 'Sandyman'), and his endearing humbleness to praise of his wit, when he so bashfully insisted he was more true to his name than clever.  
  
Frodo had mused to himself that ever if he had fancied a partner to share Bag End with him, he'd want them to be very much like Sam, so strong, caring and bright. In fact, he had thought, at first with some amusement, Sam very nearly shared Bag End with him already. And that was a notion Frodo liked very much.  
  
And the sun had shifted, then, in some way, or perhaps the breeze had blown, catching Sam's sweat-dampened curls and causing them to shine a brilliant gold, and his shirt clung to him in such fine ways, and it occurred to Frodo he'd never seen a fairer hobbit.  
  
He had left the window, then, confusion bubbling inside him and threatening to boil over.  
  
In the years that followed Bilbo's departure for Rivendell, Frodo had experienced an interesting development wherein Sam became his dearest companion and friend, for he was the closest at hand and by far the most pleasant of all of Frodo's nearby friends. While Sam still very much retained his position as gardener, and Frodo was more akin to gentry, they still shared evenings together, speaking of things extravagant for hobbits. Which included such as news of elves, dwarves, and Men beyond the borders of the four farthings, and new tales Frodo had acquired, that Sam had the freedom to borrow whenever he wished.  
  
In the wake of Bilbo's absence, while Frodo had overall become closer to the Gamgee family, it had been Sam he'd grown closest to, and held as one of his dearest friends.  
  
And now, now... Now, after all, at the end of the world, after the events of the Quest, from Bag End to Crickhollow, there to Bree, Weathertop to Rivendell, to Moria, Lórien, the dreaded lands from Amon Hen to Ithilien, to Shelob's lair and... And the Tower of Cirith Ungol, across the Plateau of Gorgoroth, and finally to Mount Doom itself... Sam had met and exceeded all callings and previously-thought limits of hobbit-kind, becoming unquestionably Frodo's dearest friend and somehow, inextricably part of himself. Beneath the weight of the Ring, Frodo had felt himself breaking, and it was the times Sam held his hand, or held him as they rested, that he felt whole again. The sun had come up to find him in the Tower, when he thought all light had forsaken him for ever. That same blinding light had cared for him the entire journey, even when he could not care for himself, and had carried him up the slopes of Mount Doom when he had no strength left to him. It was at the last, again that same brightness and warmth that held him as the world fell apart around them.  
  
Were this cold and dark loneliness not death, and he should emerge from the other side, back into the light, he did not know what would happen. It frightened him, whatever might occur. In those final moments as the Black Lands fell defeated, Frodo struggled to express his gratitude and love for Sam in the only gesture he could think of, for he had no more words. Sam had returned it, and not pushed him away. If at all, he'd held Frodo tighter.  
  
But the Ringbearer was still frightened that it had only been done, for they thought they were going to die. Why, that's the reason he'd so brazenly kissed Sam at the first, for there was no time left to express his heart. Perhaps Sam responded so for the same reasons, and if they survived, the awkward memory would hang between them forever, and Frodo might lose Sam, if a distance grew from it.  
  
And losing Sam frightened Frodo more than death. Due to the past years, and past months especially, looking at the equation, 'Frodo minus Sam', scared Frodo badly: he couldn't see the answer as anything more than zero. There was a conflict within him, feeling that if he weren't anything to begin, he had no right to wish to keep Sam near, and yet there was a part of him he would name selfish, that didn't want to be left alone. He and Sam shared something no other had, and become nearly as close as two souls might. Surely... Surely that meant something?

~  


As the darkness enveloped Frodo, he thought he could feel the wind in his hair. And the wind smelled fresh and sweet, as dry earth does after rain has come to wash the dust away.

~  


He hadn't truly expected to see light again, after the darkness. Nor for the air to be fresh, or his throat anything but dry, or to ever feel warmth and softness around him, as once his bed at Bag End had.  
  
He stirred, moving his head against something he would say was indescribably soft, noting he was beneath a blanket of equal softness, and presumably upon a bed even softer. It was warm, and there was a gentle light filling the room. He did not open his eyes for some moments longer, for he noted – in spite of the unusual rest and willingness to move that he felt, his maimed left hand was in a way restricted beneath the covers. For a pair of hands belonging to another - large, gentle, and calloused from years of working in a garden - were holding it between them.  
  
The room was white and golden above him, when he looked to see, arching high and so fair. The light came from a set of tall, open windows on the wall across the room, from which a gentle breeze blew, and through them, an azure sky could be seen, with fluffy white clouds frolicking about like sheep in a heavenly meadow.  
  
On the nightstand near at hand, were vases and vases of exotic flowers, full to the brimming, smelling fairer than any perfumes ever Frodo had known. To see such color and beauty felt a blessing beyond almost all words, after the blackness and smog of Mordor.  
  
The blessing beyond _all_ words, however, Frodo knew and acknowledged with a squeeze of his left hand, though it throbbed, and he recalled with pain that the index finger was missing. Turning his gaze to the other half of the bed, his eyes met a pair of brown, just stirring from a doze, and when they recognized his, they glassed over with tears. “Glory,” breathed Sam, who lay on his side, parallel to Frodo on his back, “morning, Mr. Frodo. Or afternoon, more like. Fairer than all fine days to see you awake again, Sir, beggin' your pardon.”  
  
Frodo managed a fragile smile, wondering if he still knew how to speak. “Hello, Sam. I'm happy beyond description to see you. Unless we're dead, which I hope is not the case. But even then, I am so glad you're here with me. And, pardon freely given, and you needn't ever ask for it again; it is always yours.”  
  
Color flushing his cheeks, Sam hastily wiped tears from his eyes with a knuckle. “Th- thank'ee awful much- but- nay, Sir, not the least bit dead. In Minas Tirith, the White City, is all, in one o' the castle's fairest rooms.  
  
“There's so much to tell you, Mr. Frodo, but first, why, we've all made it, you know – the Fellowship, that is (without Mr. Boromir I'm afraid, though that we did know) – we're all here. Mr. Merry an' Pippin, an' Mr. Gandalf, and Legolas an' Gimli. Oh, an' Strider- well, that is, King Aragorn is too, Sir. Not that he's been crowned, mind – but that'll be soon, now, as you're up an' all.  
  
“T'were the Eagles that saved us, Mr. Frodo – the ones of the Misty Mountains, as in Mr. Bilbo's old tales. Mr. Gandalf had them fly into Mordor to scoop us up, an' that they did.  
  
“An' now- Mr. Gandalf and His Lordship Aragorn've been in an' out mindin' us while we were sleepin', you see, which was for some two weeks. I only stirred this mornin' an', well- well, Sir, t'were Mr. Gandalf's idea I stay with you, 'til you woke. Beg- er, if you don't mind, Sir.”  
  
Frodo's smile grew broader, if not more tired, and he leaned his head back as a happy tear fell from his eye. “I don't mind at all, Sam.” For a moment, he paused, reveling in the bright stillness of the air. “And I am glad you're here with me.” But then, the smile sobered, and he looked back to Sam. “And... As you're here... If we've time, there's- there's a matter I'd like to discuss...”  
  
Sam's expression mirrored Frodo's as it grew serious, though the blush remained, and perhaps intensified. “Aye, all the time in the world. Nobody'll come les' one of us calls. If it's about what happened-”  
  
“-Yes,” Frodo found he could no longer meet Sam's gaze, “I... I wished to clear the air on the matter.”  
  
“Ah.” was all Sam said, his own gaze averting.  
  
“And- and to clear it quickly, before... Misconceptions arise and ill things are born of it.” In spite of his earlier comfort, Frodo's throat now felt very dry. And he wished he had rehearsed something more in preparation for this. In truth, he wasn't even sure _what_ , exactly, he wanted to say. Was a complete denial and condemnation of the action in order, or... Or should he express his insidiously selfish feelings and say he did like it, and wouldn't mind doing it again, under less dire circumstances? “Well,” he tried, knowing he must say something, “you were, were there of course, and... Well, I... I don't know what came over me.” He knew before he said a word he wouldn't be able to manage anything much less lame. Even still, he attempted to select his words carefully. “It was- discourteous and improper, and... And I wanted to apologize, if you disliked it.”  
  
Frodo closed his eyes, and wished very much that he might have his hand back.  
  
Sam did not help the stress upon Frodo by remaining silent for some time, nor by gently stroking Frodo's hand with his thumbs. But, in later years, Frodo would wonder at where Sam found the gall to ask what he did next. “... An' if I did like it, Sir?” he ventured, brows knitting as he looked back to Frodo.  
  
Quite taken aback by this reply, Frodo's eyes snapped open, and fixed themselves upon Sam with a momentarily incredulous stare, until Frodo managed to get a hold of himself. He found more difficulties in trying to talk, and had to clear his throat beforehand. “Well, in that case- if you truly did, then I- I cannot say I disliked it.” Frodo could feel his throat tightening with anxiety. “For that would be a lie. I- did, rather, like it.”  
  
A look equal parts disbelief and relief settled on Sam's face, and he did not attempt to halt the tears gathering again at his eyes. “You wakin' up is the best thing I've seen in a fair while, an' now you sayin' that is mayhap the best thing ever I heard.” Sam paused for a moment to battle a sniffle. “There were sommat I said, a time ago in the woods of Ithilien- did you hear it, Sir?”  
  
Sam's tears were contagious, and Frodo found himself trembling with a mix of joy and remaining anticipation, as he held onto Sam's hand as fiercely as Sam held on to his. “That was indeed a time ago, Sam, and I don't know. Would you say it again?”  
  
“Aye, gladly.” A look of trembling relief crossed Sam's face. “T'were the day Gollum made himself a use, catchin' a pair of coneys for that stew I made. While it were cookin', you were nappin', an', well, I looked over at you, an'... I hadn't words, you see. You were such a fair thing, an' your face... It looked ever as it had, but older-like, but finer an' wiser, chiseled like one o' the statues they have in Rivendell. Beautiful, it was. An'... An' you were glowin', just a bit, like the Phial; like a star was in you, an' it was seepin' out, or you _were_ a star, an' just choosin' that moment to show it. An' however it was, it right took my breath away.  
  
“Course, that ain't what I _said_ , 'cause then I didn't have the words. What I said was,” and here Sam paused, trembling, and Frodo squeezed his hand, “I said, 'I love him. He's like that, and sometimes it shines through, somehow. But I love him, whether or no.'  
  
“... An'- that's how I've thought of you for a fair time, Sir. That's the truth of it, right enough. An'- an' glory, I hope it don't offend-” said Sam, his words slow and a little frightened.  
  
Frodo squeezed his hand, and shook his head, giving a heartrendingly tender smile. Sam, in turn, managed a smile through his nervous tears. “More properly now, for fairness- why Sir, I love _you_ , whether or no – have for quite some time. An' was scared you'd not know it 'til it was too late, when Mordor was fallin' to pieces around us – an' then, well... That kiss, Sir. Said all the things I were too frightened t'say t'anyone but meself. Surprised me, it did, but as I said, I liked it, an' very much at that.”  
  
Frodo did not give Sam the opportunity to turn away and wait for the condemning he thought was about to come down upon him; instead, Frodo turned on his side to face Sam, bringing them nose to nose, and for the first in what felt a lifetime, beamed. “Dear Sam,” he said, bringing their four held hands up between them and kissing Sam's knuckles, “my dearest, bravest and most stouthearted Samwise, I love you as well; as you would say, whether or no.” Sam hiccuped with delight at this profession, crying now in earnest. “I had only the courage to say so at what I thought to be the last moment, but I've cared for you very much long before.” Though Frodo's heart felt it was singing, and that if he stood up just then, he thought he would fly, Frodo was hesitant to attempt it before making an addendum. “But... But only to the degree you would wish that I care for you. I... I ask for no oaths or promises, and don't wish to take from you anything your heart is set on already. And... Whenever we should return to the Shire, which I presume we shall, in time, all of Bag End will be open to you, but you will never be forced to step where you do not wish.  
  
“If... If it should be with me you find yourself most content, with joy I will give to you everything I have, but will not begrudge you if you find it with anyone else; I would encourage it, even. You... You are in no debt to me – rather, in truth, I am to you – but I will give you any nature of... Of happiness I may, if it were of want to you.  
  
“Naturally,” Frodo said in haste, “of course, if... If I misunderstand something of the premises, perhaps-”  
  
Frodo had never known a touch could somehow be reminiscent of honey. Soft and sweet, though it did not have a proper taste, it was warm and golden and a delight. Such was the exceptionally gentle kiss Sam silenced him with, before bringing their nose tips to an affectionate touch. “Mayhap you're getting a mite ahead of yourself, Sir. We've a world o' time afore that, but I can say right now, if- if you truly don't think it as me overreachin' my place, well... Bein' with you is easier than breathin'. Would be better t'me were I not to leave that.”  
  
It was unclear what began the shift in positions, but Frodo very soon found himself held in a tight embrace against Sam, smiling into his nightshirt. “Not overreaching at all, dear Sam.”

~  


As the sun began to descend in the sky, Gandalf had intended to check in on the Ring-bearers once more, and see to their needs. He was brought to a stop at the threshold of their room, however, for he saw their positions on the bed somewhat reversed from earlier.  
  
Sam was now on his back, with Frodo on his side, head and left hand resting upon his gardener's chest, both covered by a hand of Sam's. The two were sleeping in uttermost peace.  
  
The wizard withdrew from the room, smiling to himself, and decided to visit again a bit later.


End file.
